Daughter of Fire (16 page)

She rose from her pallet and went to the brazier. The flames burned brightly once more with a welcoming warmth, but still the danger was there. She could feel it, hovering just beyond the light. Slowly, she extended her hand toward the flame.

Its warmth reached out, banishing the cold, radiating toward her. Then, as she slowly extended her hand into the flame, it surrounded her as she whispered the ancient words.

“Fire of the soul, flame of life, as light reveals truth, burn golden bright.”

The flame built higher, gold threads blending with bright orange and deep crimson.

There was no pain, only the light of the flame reaching inside to the light within, illuminating with its brilliance.

At first she saw only a dark void. Then as that day at Amesbury just before Norman soldiers appeared, she saw it clearly—a flame in a world of darkness, like a fiery flower that slowly opened and revealed a creature at the heart of the flame. The creature raised its fierce head—a magnificent bird bathed in shades of fiery orange, yellow, and red...
a creature born in fire and blood.

As in her first vision, the creature spread its magnificent, powerful wings. Unlike her first vision, it did not rise from the heart of the flame. The colors shifted and changed. Brilliant yellow-and-orange flame was bathed in crimson that spread, drowning the other colors until everything was washed in blood. She saw a death—Rorke FitzWarren’s death.

Nine

V
ivian cried out as she pulled her hand from the flames, as though she had experienced that death herself.

Rushing from William’s tent, she was stopped by one of Rorke’s guards.

“You must take me to milord FitzWarren’s tent,” she demanded. “The falcon is there. I must see to her.” He finally nodded and escorted her to Rorke’s tent.

Before they reached it, Vivian heard the falcon’s wild, frenzied calls. As she entered the tent, the falcon’s sleek head angled toward her, with eyes that were brilliant golden pools of light.

“She has been like this for some time,” Rorke’s squire told her.

“Aye,” Vivian said, approaching the perch with no fear of those powerful wings and deadly talons. She crooned softly to the falcon.

“You sense it too, my sweet,” she murmured, stroking the falcon’s glossy chest as it calmed. “Aye, it is there. I feel it though I cannot see it,” Then taking the falcon onto her arm, she stepped outside.

The first light of dawn streaked the sky with fingers of gold. Rorke’s squire and his guard watched, as she continued speaking softly.

“Stretch your wings, little one,” she whispered, letting her thoughts join with the falcon’s. “See what I cannot see, be where I cannot be,” she spoke in the ancient language. Then, extending her arm, she sent the falcon aloft. When Rorke’s guard would have stopped her it was too late, the falcon was already seeking the dawn-lit sky.

“Now, you must take me to Sir Gavin,” she told him.  When the guard hesitated, she ordered him, “Take me to him, you fool, or milord FitzWarren’s blood will be on your hands.”

Gavin immediately roused from his pallet, his brother Guy stepping to the entrance of the tent with him. Both carried their swords.

“What is it?” he asked, frowning. “What has happened?”

“There is great danger,” Vivian hurriedly explained, fear tight around her heart. “You must take your men and ride after him.”

“What foolishness is this?” he asked.

“Or a trick, perhaps?” Sir Guy suggested.

Desperate now, Vivian knew there was no time to waste with lengthy explanations.

“It is no trick. What would be the purpose? My escape?” she asked him. “Think!” she implored them. “I am surrounded by the entire Norman army. How could I possibly escape?”

And yet she knew he recalled the day before, when she had easily left William’s tent with Rorke’s men guarding it.

“You must go now!” she demanded. “He is in grave danger!”

She knew that he was unconvinced.

“Please, Gavin,” she begged. Calling on her power, she reached out to lay a hand at his arm, her fingers gently closing over the hard muscles beneath, even as she felt the darkness grow ever more dangerous.

“You must not fail,” she implored, giving him her thoughts now, conveying to him the sense of urgency she had sensed upon waking. 

“Stay with her,” he ordered his brother.  “Do not let her out of your sight.”

“The falcon will guide you,” Vivian said with a rush of relief so intense that it was almost painful.

Dawn was full upon them by the time they were ready to leave the encampment. Vivian stood at the opening of William’s tent, darkness invading her thoughts, filling her soul with a cold ache, and the certainty that the entire future lay in the balance.

Hurry! she sent her urgent thoughts with Gavin. Do not delay. And then her thoughts lifted, climbing the skies on outstretched wings as she prayed they were not too late.

~ ~ ~

At midday Rorke and his men stopped at the edge of a stream to water the horses. The respite was brief, his men taking their own food and drink quickly as they continued their search for Saxon rebels who hid in the forest.

The two score of handpicked men rode in groups of four, fanning out from each other in the shape of an arrow tip piercing the dense forest. One group was always within sight of the next lest they come upon a group of Saxons who’d fled the carnage at Hastings and then regrouped to take up the fight in smaller roving bands. King Harold’s army might be broken, but it was not yet defeated.

It was a lesson Rorke had learned well at a very young age on his first battlefield. An army that defended its homeland was like the mythical creature Medusa. You might sever one serpent’s head, but there were others still capable of striking with deadly poison. And with William gravely injured, there was always the chance of another strike. It could come in any one of a dozen different places. It was a tactic that had ultimately defeated more than one invading army.

It was for that reason that he had taken unofficial command of William’s vast army, sending soldiers far afield to track down Saxon leaders who might each have it within his power to mount  a small army together to spring a surprise rebellion. The Saxon dukes and earls must also be dealt with, but that was for William to determine when he was stronger.

They had eaten cheese and bread for the midday meal, part of the stores William had brought from across the sea. A prolonged occupation would quickly deplete those stores, creating a new concern—the feeding of a massive invasion army. Rorke glanced over at Tarek as they angled through the forest, following the directions of the mapmaker William had brought from Normandy. A learned young man who had traveled extensively with his Saxon merchant grandfather about the whole of Britain, he had acquired invaluable knowledge. It was young Merrick’s map they followed.

Rorke glanced across at Tarek, whose scowl was a permanent fixture since leaving the Norman encampment. That blue gaze constantly scanned every stand of trees, thicket, and outcropping of moss-covered rocks.

He had specifically given Tarek orders to lead one of the other groups, as he had Stephen of Valois. He trusted the skills and prowess of both men completely. Stephen had taken command of the guard to his right, Tarek had politely refused.

“I fight by your side,” he said simply, which was exactly what he always said whenever the matter arose even though Rorke was in command. He was again reminded that only Tarek al Sharif made decisions or gave orders to Tarek al Sharif.

“You do not like the forest,” Rorke commented as their horses picked their way through the tree and brush cover. “You much prefer to be out in the open.”

“This cursed forest hides a thousand enemies,” Tarek spat out irritably. “I can feel their eyes watching.  It is dangerous! We should leave this place!”

“And leave our quarry to hide out, group together, and possibly become a strong force to be dealt with later?” Rorke offered logically in what was a frequent argument. “I would much rather fight one wolf than a pack of wolves.”

“There are other ways to fight,” Tarek commented. “Burn the forest, and all within will perish.”

“Including the forest itself and all the wildlife within,” Rorke pointed out. “What will the people use for fuel at their fires when winter comes? What will they eat? No, my friend. That is not William’s purpose.” He found himself repeating what Vivian had argued very recently.

“William is not interested in ruling over a land of graves and funeral pyres. There is no wealth in graves.” His comment was greeted with a snort of disdain.

“More than one lion has been felled by a pack of wolves,” Tarek pointed out.

“That is why the lion must seek out the wolves before they attack,” Rorke replied.

The mist had burned off over the tops of the trees, exposing a brilliant blue sky that appeared in patches amid burnished gold and evergreen foliage. Beyond the sounds of their own presence were the sounds of the forest, the chattering of birds gathering seed from the forest floor in places where snow had melted, the scolding of a squirrel, the curious stare of a muskrat at the opening of its burrow as they rode past.

The trees thinned and opened onto a clearing where late afternoon sun warmed through cold armor. Two more groups, the phalanx of the arrow’s tip, emerged a short distance away flanking both sides. A sleek, graceful shadow swept across the sunlit clearing, drawing Rorke’s gaze skyward. He immediately recognized the falcon for the trailing leather jesses woven through with a blue ribbon.

“Aquila,” he said in surprise.

Tarek’s gaze followed his. “How is it the falcon has followed us? I thought you left her with the girl for safekeeping.”

“She would not follow us of her own accord,” Rorke answered with certainty. His gray gaze was fixed on the sleek bird as she swooped low along the rim of the clearing, plunged into the forest as if suddenly spotting prey, and then immediately reappeared her talons empty.

She swept toward Rorke, veering so close that his warhorse snorted nervously, so close that Rorke saw the glossy gold and sable feathers of her wing, and he could have sworn her brilliant yellow eyes glowed deep, fiery blue. She did not seek the perch of his arm as he offered it, but angled past toward the trees. He stared after her, trying to discern the falcon’s strange manner.

“She was sent to find us,” he said of a certainty.

As he spoke dozens of birds suddenly plunged skyward, startled from their perches in the surrounding trees by some unseen creature. Or creatures.

“To arms!” He shouted the alarm to his men, his war cry shattering the peace of the forest.

Steel sang as it was drawn from sheath and scabbard, gleaming deadly in the bright afternoon sun from a dozen locations about the clearing. No sooner were they drawn than the attack was upon them.

Saxon rebels came from the trees and the cover of rocks, swarming into the clearing, a full score outnumbering the Norman knights. At Rorke’s signal, his men formed a defensive circle at the heart of the clearing, turned their warhorses into the onslaught, and prepared to meet the attack head-on.  There was no time for more.

As it was, the precious few seconds’ warning they had been given by the startled birds meant the critical difference between slaughter and a chance to defend themselves.

The attack had been well calculated and the Saxons were well armed, many carrying Norman battle-axes, mace, and swords no doubt stripped from the dead at Hastings. They outnumbered Rorke and his men, and were not encumbered by heavy armor or the unwieldy horses forced into close proximity with one another.

The Saxons fought like seasoned warriors, surprising Rorke with their prowess and cunning. If Harold had possessed a full army of such men, he might have won the battle at Hastings, and saved his throne. One of Rorke’s men was struck a blow from a battle-ax, sagged, and fell from his mount. Beside him, Stephen’s vulnerable right side was exposed to attack.

“Protect him!” Rorke shouted at Tarek as he wheeled his warhorse about to block a blow with the hilt of his sword. He saw the moment’s hesitation that crossed Tarek’s fierce expression, then he swung the mare about to join Stephen.

All about them were the familiar sounds of a fiercely fought battle—the battle cries of the Saxons who had already been defeated at Hastings and no doubt felt they had precious little more to lose; an agonized scream as a Saxon met death beneath the slashing hooves of a Norman warhorse; the painful cries of wounded men as they fell on both sides; the animal sound of a dying horse as it toppled to the ground, taking its rider with it.

Rorke met blow after blow with his sword, guiding the stallion about with the hard pressure of one knee and then the other, as if the animal were a weapon. Striking down one Saxon with his sword, another was staggered off-balance by the lunge of the horse’s massive shoulder, long enough for Rorke to recover and thrust his sword deep into the attacker.

He felt sudden resistance as the tip of the sword met bone beneath the Saxon tunic, then the soft-as-butter yielding of muscle and sinew. The man cried in agony as he took the sword deep. Then he was forgotten and Rorke was swinging around to meet the next blow.

His arm grew weary. He felt the stallion stagger and grow tired beneath him. Still the animal responded gallantly, shifting and dodging at his command.

Within his field of vision he saw the falcon suddenly burst skyward, and then the sound of battle seemed to increase tenfold as mounted soldiers poured from the forest into the clearing. The Saxons found themselves trapped between Rorke’s men in the middle of the clearing and Gavin’s men, who surrounded them from every direction.

Heartened by the sight of their fellow soldiers and knights, Rorke’s men rallied. The two forces of Norman soldiers converged, crushing the Saxon attackers between. The battle, which had seemed all but lost only moments before, was turned and brought to a quick, decisive end.

“Hold your weapons!” Rorke shouted, the command echoed all along the Norman line until one by one his men ceased fighting. The Saxon dead littered the clearing. Few remained standing. Of those who did, most had been badly wounded. One man broke from the others and ran for the trees. Sir Guy quickly rode him down.